


i really wanna tell you / how can there be anything else?

by puddingcatbeans



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Relationship, Friendship/Love, Holding Hands, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25497718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddingcatbeans/pseuds/puddingcatbeans
Summary: 5 times they almost held hands, and one time they did.
Relationships: Aomine Daiki & Kise Ryouta, Aomine Daiki/Kise Ryouta
Comments: 9
Kudos: 95





	i really wanna tell you / how can there be anything else?

**Author's Note:**

> title from [心中無別人 Nobody else in my heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EitgfC3gg7M) by 五月天 mayday
> 
> i just found this within my class notes from 2 years ago so uh. hands you this

“Aaah, I’m beat,” Ryouta says, flopping onto the bench. He fans himself with one hand and reaches for his water bottle with the other.

Aomine rolls his eyes. He plops down next to Ryouta, long legs stretched out before them. He elbows Ryouta in the side. “Oi,” he says, “give me some.”

“Get your own!”

“I finished it already. C’mon, just one sip.”

“You always chug it,” Ryouta complains. He hands it over anyway. He watches Aomine close his mouth around the opening and tilt his head back, watches Aomine’s throat bob as water goes down, watches the drops of sweat slide down his sun-kissed skin. Ryouta tears his eyes away. He suddenly feels parched again.

The court is empty. Summer heat bears down on the hot concrete, so forcefully it feels like a downpour. Cicada song chirps all around them. In the distance, there are the clink of baseball bats and children’s laughter. Out here, in this childhood basketball court, it’s just the two of them. 

“Wanna get something to eat later?” Aomine asks. He hands the bottle back. It’s completely empty, as expected.

Ryouta hums. He puts the bottle down by their feet. Then, carefully, he slides his hand over until their fingers bump together. Holding his breath, Ryouta lifts his pinky and hooks it around the other boy’s littlest finger. A heartbeat passes. Aomine doesn’t pull away. Ryouta closes his eyes, and tilts his head back to face the sun.

It was Ryouta’s idea to hold a reunion dinner. Well, his and Momoi’s idea. It’s not every day Akashi is back in Japan for more than a pitstop, after all.

But, for someone who is hosting this dinner, Ryouta’s not feeling too well.

They had booked the restaurant a week in advance and double-checked for Ryouta’s and Midorima’s dietary restrictions and made sure their friends’ schedules were open. They’d arrived early and ordered everyone’s favourite dishes and even a few bottles of the nice wine since Akashi had volunteered to pay. Ryouta rescheduled a photoshoot for this. He wore his most comfortable shoes for this.

And he  _ is  _ happy to see his friends. He always is. Momoi’s as beautiful as ever, Murasakibara’s appetite hasn’t changed, and Kuroko’s quips are just as sharp as he remembers. He’s so proud that his friends are doing good, and he’s glad that they’re still friendly enough to talk like this, laughter in the air—but something cold has settled in Ryouta’s chest and he can’t seem to measure his breaths. The restaurant is too loud. Too noisy. Why didn't they book a private room? Why is there an oyster on his plate? He can’t eat it, it always makes his stomach cramp up. His glass is too full. This is horrible—

Something solid and warm bumps against his hand. Ryouta glances down to find Aomine’s hand next to his on the booth. Aomine doesn’t look at him. He’s in the middle of arguing with Kagami about some American food trend, but his pinky nudges at Ryouta’s until Ryouta’s own fingers twitch to make room. Their pinkies hook together.

And all of a sudden, Ryouta feels much better. He squeezes around Aomine’s finger, taking a deep breath and letting it go slowly.

Kuroko is watching him from across the table. Ryouta flashes his brightest grin at him. Kuroko holds his gaze for another moment, and then looks away. Ryouta keeps his hand where it is, connected to the man beside him. 

Ryouta is sleepy. And a little dizzy. And probably more than a little drunk. But they’re in a taxi on the way back to someone’s apartment, so it’s okay. It’s all good.

“I don’t want to go home,” Ryouta says suddenly.

On his left, staring out the window with half-lidded eyes, Aomine sighs. He doesn’t look away from the city lights flashing by them in the murky windows. In a weary voice, he asks, “Why not?”

“Because,” Ryouta says, and then his words slip away. He waves a hand through the air. “Because!”

Aomine rolls his eyes. “You’re the one that got drunk at your coworker’s engagement party. I’m just here to make sure you don’t end up in a ditch somewhere.”

“Aw, you  _ do  _ care about me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Ryouta smiles at him. The empty middle seat stretches between them. The taxi driver has put on a soft rock radio station. It’s drizzling slightly outside, blurring the world into a pleasantly distant dream. Ryouta shivers a bit. He doesn’t want to think about the glint of the lights off matching rings or the twin radiant smiles of the bride and groom-to-be. He doesn’t want to think about the way the skyscrapers in the daylight feels like they’re boxing him in, how cameras on him feel like a second skin but lately when he looks in the mirror he doesn’t recognize himself at all. He doesn’t want to think about anything but this, Aomine’s steady presence beside him, in a random taxi cab, winding through these rain-painted streets. 

“Hey.” Aomine is looking at him. Ryouta blinks, slow and damp. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” Ryouta nods. It’s strange, though. Like he’s drifting away even though he’s sitting right here. His hand twitches at his side.

Wordlessly, Aomine slides his hand over. Their pinkines twine together, familiar with practised movements. Ryouta takes in a breath. Then another. He focuses on the warmth of Aomine’s pinky, imagines it spreading up his bloodstreams through all his veins, all the way down to his toes. 

Outside, the rain continues to pour. Still, Ryouta thinks. He wouldn’t mind staying here forever.

Ryouta didn’t know silence could ring so loudly.

He stares across the room at the blank television screen. This apartment is in the heart of the city because he can afford it and he knows Aomine likes the bustle of the night life. The man claimed the constant buzzing of noise outside helped him sleep, but Ryouta thinks he’s just afraid of waking up alone. Which is stupid because Ryouta’s the one that had to do that, when Aomine is travelling halfway across the world for the entirety of the basketball season.

Aomine sits on the couch with him, on the other end, as far away as he can be. Their harsh words to each other are still hovering between them. Knives suspended in midair. Ryouta doesn’t know why he is surprised. Since their teenage years they have learned to perfect the art of being cruel to each other. He should be used to it by now. 

It’s just. Something about this, in this place he’d carved out for the two of them, even if they never admitted anything out loud, it feels wrong. It shouldn’t be like this.

Ryouta is so tired of it being like this.

Building each other up only to tear each other down when clouds roll over the sky. Digging where it hurts because it is easier than saying sorry. They’re too old to be waging war against each other like this. The scars under Ryouta’s skin scrape against his bones. He thinks about that morning, waking up with Aomine’s naked skin pressing him into the mattress. He thinks about New Years, making the trip to the shrine together, and then taking the same train back to the Aomine house for dinner. How did they get from there to here?

“Ryouta,” Aomine says, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair his low, grumbly voice is the backdrop to Ryouta’s evenings. It’s not fair how perfectly Ryouta’s name fits in the shape of his mouth.

“I’m tired,” Ryouta says.

The ticking of the kitchen clock is loud. There’s a single plane ticket resting on the dining table. A shaky breath. Then another.

“Ryouta,” Aomine says again, and his voice is so quiet, more quiet than Ryouta has ever heard. He’s tired, too. Who wouldn’t be, with this unnamed back and forth they’ve been chasing for years and years now? For how many more years?

Familiar fingers brush the back of Ryouta’s hand. He closes his eyes. Slowly, like a blade of grass stretching towards the sun, he turns his palm upwards. They sit there in frozen silence, only their fingertips touching.

The streets in LA are much wider than Ryouta is used to, but the sidewalks are no less crowded. He follows closely behind Aomine, eyes wide as he drinks in the sights.

There’s a baseball cap shoved on top of his head, but he’s left his shades behind. He doesn’t need to hide here. The last time he’s been here, he was on a tight schedule, being shuffled around from studio to studio to some on-location shots. But for the next week or so, he’s free. Free to follow Aomine wherever he wants to go.

“Oi,” Aomine says, glancing at him over his shoulder. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Something greasy,” Ryouta replies.

Aomine narrows his eyes. “Thought your manager forbade you from touching that stuff.”

Ryouta just grins at him. “I’m on vacation, baby! Take me to your favourite burger joint. I want to try the fries here.”

“If you get in trouble, you’re on your own.” 

Someone jostles into Ryouta. There are tourist families snapping pics in the middle of the road. The traffic on the road is bad, and the crowd around them moves every which way. Laughter surrounds them, people talking in a multitude of different languages. Ryouta hurries forwards, reaching out with an outstretched hand.

He latches on to Aomine’s sleeve. The other man doesn’t look back, but he slows his footsteps until Ryouta is next to him once more. In the dry heat of the California sun, Ryouta tightens his grip on Aomine’s sleeve, and follows Aomine. They have time.

Daiki has barely parked the car before Ryouta is tumbling out the passenger seat, camera in his hands as he runs down the sandy beach. He hears the man yelling after him, but Ryouta is captivated by the waves.

It’s nearly five in the evening. They had a late start that morning, the motel they were checked into having a bed more comfortable than it ought to for the amount they’d paid for the night. Ryouta’s still not used to the winding mountain roads of this country, used to the flat countryside meadows like the trip they took half a year ago, back in Japan. Still, with the GPS plugged in and their favourite snacks in the backseat of the rented car, it’s not that bad.

The sun is starting to set, spilling sleepy purples and oranges across the sky. The colours reflected on the shifting waves are ever-changing, but Ryouta tries to capture them with his camera, anyway. He runs a blog now, his name barely a footnote, but he still has loyal fans dutifully commenting on every new uploaded photograph, glad to see him pursuing his own joys even after retirement. Daiki doesn’t follow it, but he bought him a new camera last month.

“You forgot your jacket.” Daiki throws the jacket at his head. His hair is wind-ruffled from the open windows and the sea breeze. The lovebite Ryouta left last night peeks over the collar of his matching jacket.

“Let’s take a selfie,” Ryouta says. Daiki rolls his eyes, but when Ryouta swings his arms around his shoulders, his gaze finds the camera lens without prompting.

The ocean rolls along beyond them, the sun slowly tracing its path home. Ryouta huddles on the sand next to Daiki, feeling at once smaller and larger than he’s ever been. The camera hangs around his neck, memories of this road trip carefully kept inside, the two of them existing, together.

When Daiki’s hand bumps into his, Ryouta slips his fingers into the space between. They fit just right—maybe not perfectly, but familiarly, easily, all too comfortably. Ryouta holds Daiki’s hand and breathes to the feeling of Daiki holding him back.

**Author's Note:**

> @puddingcatbeans on tumblr/twitter


End file.
